The detachment were now grouped round the gun, and I drew near to have a look at it.  No neater adaptation of means to end could be devised than your eighteen-pounder.  She is as docile as a child, and her “bubble” is as sensitive to a touch as mercury in a barometer.

“No. 1 add one hundred.  Two-nought minutes more left!” shouted the sergeant, who, with the versatility of a variety artiste, was now playing another part from his extensive repertoire.  He was forward observing officer.

One of his pupils turned the ranging gear until the range-drum registered a further hundred yards, while another traversed the gun until it pointed twenty minutes more left.

As we turned away they were performing another delicate and complicated operation which was not carried through without some plaintive expostulation from the N.C.O.

“It reminds me,” remarked the Major colloquially, as we strolled away, “of Falstaff drilling his recruits.  So does the texture of the khaki they serve out to the O.T.C.  ‘Dowlas, filthy dowlas!’ But you’ve no idea how soon he’ll lick them into shape.  These ‘dug-outs’ are as primitive as cave-dwellers in their way but they know their job.  And what is more, they like it.”

As we passed the stables I heard ecstatic sounds—­a whinny of equine delight and the blandishments of a human voice.  Through the open door I caught a glimpse of Driver Hawkins with his back turned towards us.  His left arm was round Tommy’s neck and the left side of his face rested upon Tommy’s head; the fingers of his right hand were delicately stroking Tommy’s nose.

“I forgives yer,” I heard him say with rare magnanimity, “yus, I forgives yer, old boy.  But if yer does it again, yer’ll give me the blooming ’ump.”

I passed hurriedly on.  It was not for a stranger to intrude on anything so intimate.

FOOTNOTE: 

[24] On leave in England.

XXII

CHRISTMAS EVE

(1914)

“Halt!  Stop, I mean.”

The ring of choristers in khaki and blue flannel faced with cotton wool looked at their conductor, a sergeant in the Glosters, with intense and painful concentration.  They were rehearsing carols in the annexe of a Base hospital on Christmas Eve, and the sergeant was as hard to please as if they were recruits doing their first squad drill.  They were a scratch lot, recruited by a well-meaning chaplain to the Forces, from Base “details” and convalescents.  Their voices were lusty, but their time erratic, and one ardent spirit was a bar ahead and gaining audibly with each lap despite the desperate spurts of the rest.

“Opened out his throttle—­’e has,” whispered an Army driver professionally to his neighbour; “‘e’s a fair cop for exceedin’ the speed limit.”

The sergeant glanced magisterially at the offender, a young Dorset, who a year ago was hedging and ditching in the Vale of Blackmore, but who has lately done enough digging for a whole parish.